Tzili: The Story of a Life

4

BY NOW TZILI’S memories of home were blurred. They’ve all gone, she said blankly to herself. The little food she ate appeased her hunger. She was tired. A kind of hollowness, without even the shadow of a thought, plunged her into a deep sleep.

But her body had no rest that night. It seethed. Painful sensations woke her from time to time. What’s happening to me? she asked herself, not without resentment. She feared her body, as if something alien had taken possession of it.

When she woke and rose to her feet it was still night. She felt her feet, and when she found nothing wrong with them she was reassured. She sat and listened attentively to her body. It was a cloudless and windless night. Above the bowed tops of the corn a dull flame gleamed. From below, the stalks looked like tall trees. She was astonished by the stillness.

And while she stood there listening she felt a liquid oozing from her body. She felt her belly, it was tight but dry. Her muscles throbbed rhythmically. “What’s happening to me?” she said.

When dawn broke she saw that her dress was stained with a number of bright spots of blood. She lifted up her dress. There were a couple of spots on the ground too. “I’m going to die.” The words escaped her lips.

A number of years before, her oldest sister had cut her finger on a kitchen knife. And by the time the male nurse came, the floor was covered with dark blood stains. When he finally arrived, he clapped his hands to his head in horror. And ever since they had spoken about Blanca’s weak, wounded finger in solicitous tones.

“I’m going to die,” she said, and all at once she rose to her feet. The sudden movement alarmed her even more. A chill ran down her spine and she shivered. The thought that soon she would be lying dead became more concrete to her than her own feet. She began to whimper like an animal. She knew that she must not scream, but fear made her reckless. “Mother, mother!” she wailed. She went on screaming for a long time. Her voice grew weaker and weaker and she fell to the ground with her arms spread out, as she imagined her body would lie in death.

When she had composed herself a little, she saw her sister sitting at the table. In the last year she had tortured herself with algebra. They had to bring a tutor from the neighboring town. The tutor turned out to be a harsh, strict man and Blanca was terrified of him. She wept, but no one paid any attention to her tears. The father too, from his sick bed, demanded the impossible of her. And she did it too. Although she did not complete the paper and obtained a low mark, she did not fail. Now Tzili saw her sister as she had never seen her before, struggling with both hands against the Angel of Death.

And as the light rose higher in the sky, Tzili heard the trudge of approaching feet. One of the blind man’s daughters was leading her father to his place. He was grumbling. Cursing his wife and daughters. The girl did not reply. Tzili listened intently to the footsteps. When they reached his place on the hillock the girl said: “With your permission, father, I’ll go back to the pasture now.”

“Go!” He dismissed her, but immediately changed his mind and added: “That’s the way you honor your father.”

“What shall I do, father?” Her voice trembled.

“Tell your father the latest news in the village.”

“They chased the Jews away and they killed them too.”

“All of them?” he asked, with a dry kind of curiosity.

“Yes, father.”

“And their houses? What happened to their houses?”

“The peasants are looting them,” she said, lowering her voice as if she were repeating some scandalous piece of gossip.

“What do you say? Maybe you can find me a winter coat.”

“I’ll look for one, father.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget.”

Tzili took in this exchange, but not its terrible meaning. She was no longer afraid. She knew that the blind man would not move from his place.